


empty hollow oak line

by purpleseaweed



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AKA eddie's slutty phase, Eddie Kaspbrak's Hot Girl Winter, Endgame Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Fix-It, Lots of handjobs, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), and talks of contemporary art, feat. beverly and eddie as chaotic roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleseaweed/pseuds/purpleseaweed
Summary: Newly divorced Eddie Kaspbrak finds out that he, too, can have a little bit of fun.“I’m not saying you should do anything with him, Eddie,” she hurries to say before he can respond, “But, yeah, do what makes you happy. What makes you happy?”His friends. Waking up late on weekends. Going to the Farmer’s Market with Bev on Sunday and picking up a pastry to eat for breakfast. Calls with Richie. Watching The Crown. Kissing men who smell of cologne and have a stubble and not thinking it’s wrong afterwards. Ben cooking for him and Beverly when he’s staying over. Those narrow moments where he picks up Richie’s calls with, “Eddie Kaspbrak speaking,” even though he knows it’s Richie, and Richie mocks him so Eddie pretends to get mad. Sushi.So yeah, maybe Eddie doesn’t like parties, and he thinks too much about the what if’s, and he can’t really pick up the signals when someone’s flirting with him but god, does he want to be happy. And he really wants to feel free.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Original Male Character(s), Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	empty hollow oak line

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm not really sure about this but i got tired of having it in my drafts so i finished and posted it
> 
> content warning: this fic features alcohol usage, weed, drunk characters (but not that drunk), tender use of derogatory terms such as sl*t to talk about a gay man, mentions of eddie kaspbrak's ex wife, nasty divorce battles, unhealthy dynamics in relationships, sex with strangers and unprotected oral sex.
> 
> title from veins by palace

It all starts, like most of Eddie’s big life-changing events, with a phone call.

It’s past six and he’s staying at the office late when Donna calls.

Donna is the lawyer who’s handling Eddie’s divorce and the same reason he’s been staying late nights at work for the past few months. She’s a fifty-something attorney who owns at least seven turtlenecks, wears tortoise-rimmed glasses and sports a constantly pissed off look on her face. Eddie hired her after his newly divorced asshole colleague Mark defined her as a “stone cold bitch who will bleed your ex wife dry”. Not that Eddie is the kind of divorcing husband who would desire to drain his wife’s funding, or in any case a person who would take advice from a man who’s got a picture of himself with Donald Trump as his screen saver and has renounced to the custody of his children and pats Eddie’s scarred cheek with paternalistic intent each time they carry on the smallest of talk in front of the coffee machine, but Eddie has, also, always been sure that his split from Myra would not be amicable, and thus he has been working his ass off for the past two months and a half to pay off Donna’s fees without having to sell his watches.

So when Donna calls him to tell him that she has just sent a copy of his divorce decree to his address and that it should be delivered in the next few days, Eddie’s first instinct is to log off from his account on the computer in front of him and exit work one hour earlier than expected.

He exits the building in a hurry, too happy to even bother properly wearing his scarf, a grey wool piece gifted to him by Beverly, and he’s met with the stinging cold air of December in New York. Even then, he’s too enthusiastic to care. He takes off his right-hand glove and does the first logical thing that comes to mind, which is to call Bill.

Bill has been Eddie’s divorcee companion for these past few months, as a replacement of Beverly. Although the two of them are— _were_ , Eddie thinks triumphantly—both in similar situations and are remarkably close, Eddie and Beverly do not really talk about their divorce, as Beverly pointedly refuses to even touch on the topic outside of a court of law or her lawyer’s office. Bill lives on the other side of the country, is going through a fairly amicable divorce with Audra, who agreed to file proceedings on the basis of irreconcilable differences and seems to have made peace with the fact that Bill carries much more baggage than the man she thought she had married, and gladly accepts all of Eddie’s calls in this regard, humming in an understanding manner to most of his complaints.

So when Eddie breaks the news to him, he’s expectedly delighted about it.

“Man, that’s great!” is Bill’s immediate response. “You got to keep the car, right?”

Eddie did not, in fact, get to keep the car. He explains as such to Bill for the rest of his thirty-minute walk to his and Beverly’s shared apartment. The car had actually been among Eddie’s small list of requests, but he soon gave it up as he discovered it would have been to the right direction to have the enormously high alimony Myra wanted to be reduced. And it isn't like he needs the car, anyway: it was certainly useful while living in Long Island with Myra, but his new apartment—which he pays unusually low rent for, thanks to it being Beverly’s friend’s—is right in the middle of the city, just a comfortable thirty-minute walk from his work.

He finishes telling this to Bill, and then Bill asks something which somehow startles Eddie. “So, is this the start of new Eddie?”

Eddie frowns, slowing down a little. Someone hastily bumps into him, but he’s too confused to even muster up the strength to call them off.

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, you’re a new man. You can do anything.”

Eddie’s confused. He’s spent the last few months throwing most of his life around. Sure, he’s kept his job, he still lives in New York and he still refuses to eat cashews. However he’s got a new apartment, albeit not a permanent one, and he lives with a roommate who’s neither his mother nor his wife. He drinks red wine on the white couch, orders take out at least once a week and now that his finance will get back in order and he has no one to screen his expenses, he may even buy that obnoxiously expensive Thom Browne tie he’s had in his wish list since August. That must be it, right?

He chats with Bill about the other’s divorce for the rest of his walk, and then mumbles a quick farewell once he’s reached the entrance of his building. It’s a 24 stories grey building in Tribeca, built at the beginning of the past century. The apartment he shares with Beverly is on the seventeenth floor. Usually, he would take the stairs for the first five floors, but he decides to call the elevator directly at the ground floor this time. _New Eddie_ , he thinks when the doors open.

When he opens the door and steps into the bright space, he’s soon met with the sight of Beverly on his right, in the living room, crouching down in what seems to be the middle of a measuring session of a placid Ben.

Beverly looks up from her boyfriend’s ankles to greet Eddie with a warm smile and a mumbled hello, mostly incomprehensible due to the three needles lying precariously between her lips.

Ben, on his part, utters a warm “Hey Eddie” and waves his left hand.

“Ben’s staying for dinner,” Beverly says once she’s tucked all her needles in the hem of Ben’s pants. “We’re getting sushi. You in?”

Eddie also eats sushi now, even the fattening westernized kind with cream cheese and fried specks of onion, although he still makes sure to ask for the low-sodium soy sauce and only orders from places which have passed all the proper health certifications he can think of; so he says yes. Then he retreats to his room to change change into more comfortable clothes—a soft cotton sweatpants set, another gift from Beverly.

Unlike Beverly’s, his bedroom does not have a balcony, but they enjoy the same exact view of City Hall Park. It’s too far in the year for there to be sunlight at this time of the day, but Eddie can still make out bundles of people strolling through the paths. While he looks down, he wonders again about Bill’s words. Reasonably, he knows it was a figure of speech, an exaggerated question related to a newfound freedom finally made formal by official deeds. Reasonably, Eddie knows Bill didn’t really mean anything by it; nothing of value.

Still, he thinks, he’s Eddie Kaspbrak. He was Eddie Kaspbrak at thirteen, an Eddie with less wrinkles and a softer skin that did not need lotion. He was Eddie Kaspbrak at seventeen, living in Queens with no memory of the friends he had just left behind in Maine. He was Eddie Kaspbrak at thirty-two, muttering vows to my soon-to-be-wife and fighting a panic attack in front of the altar. What does it mean to be Eddie Kaspbrak, anyway? _A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose_ , he mutters in his head, while he observes the minuscule figures in the park, so small they all look similar to each other.

When he steps back into the living room, he finds Beverly and Ben on the couch. The pants Ben was wearing are now abandoned on the head of one of the armchair, replaced on his legs by a pair of blue jeans. Ben is sitting composed on the couch, legs spread apart, an arm wrapped around Beverly and her head on his shoulder, and they’re both looking at Ben’s phone. They look up when he comes in. “We’re ordering,” Beverly explains. “Do you want anything specific?”

Eddie really, really likes some kind of fried rolls they make at the place he and Beverly usually order at, but they’re terribly fattening and unhealthy. He starts a debate in his head: he ate oatmeal with dark chocolate and banana this morning, which is fine but something of a treat, but then he got a salad for lunch, but the salad had some sort of fried chicken in it, which is bad, considering the rolls are also fried. His first instinct, thus, is to say no. Then he thinks, _I’m divorced_.

“Get the fried rolls.”

He sits on the armchair not already occupied by the pants, and starts scrolling through his notifications. There are three messages in the Losers’ group chat, all in response to the photo Mike sent this morning, of a cattle somewhere in Wyoming. Richie’s message is the most recent and it has something to do with Kanye West. There’s an e-mail from an intern named Devon which he pointedly ignores because his workday is over already, a missed call from an unknown number he suspects is a scammer and another e-mail from Matches telling him an item in his wish list is on sale. He opens it and is disappointed when he discovers it’s not the Thom Browne tie. He locks his phone again.

“Hey.” Beverly and Ben look at him. “I’m divorced.”

The reaction is immediate: Beverly raises her eyebrows in surprise and her cheeks reach her eyes when she smiles; Ben claps his hands in triumph and exclaims, “Congratulations!”

“C’mere.” Beverly gestures at him to join them on the couch.

Eddie stands up and Beverly moves from her position next to Ben, leaving some space for Eddie between them. He nestles down on the soft pillows left warm by Beverly’s body. His right arm is pressed against Ben and Beverly immediately wraps an arm around his shoulder and kisses his cheek.Eddie’s still not really used to all these physical acts of love his friends have been offering him. Ben and Beverly are both very affectionate people. They both like hugging, squeezing your shoulder and wrists, messing up your hair and cuddling. Beverly, in particular, is prone to kissing. On the mornings where they’re both up at the same time and she’s around to see Eddie slip out of the door to go to work, she never misses a chance to smooch his cheek and then send him out as if he was a good boy. It should annoy him—Eddie’s never really been a fan of physical touch. He remembers with shudders the infinite number of kisses he gave to his mother from age five to twenty-eight. When leaving, when returning, before going to bed. And with Myra, quick pecks on the lips when greeting each others had become an annoying habit, like the I love you’s. Still, after an initial moment of discomfort and confusion, he’s gotten used to Beverly’s kisses and the feeling of her arms around him, or the way she gets so close he can smell her citrus shampoo on her hair. She doesn’t do it because it's what she’s supposed to do or because she’s afraid something might happen to him in the hours he is at work. As kids, they would sometimes see each other on Sunday right after the hasty lunches they’d had with their respective parents. They’d meet at the Clubhouse and sit in silence just outside of it, their arms pressed against each other, Beverly smoking and blowing the smoke opposite to Eddie’s direction. And Beverly was actually careful with touch around other people—would always make sure for her touch not to linger too much. But, alone in the woods, with Eddie’s panicky breath by her side, the desire to have someone close was somehow stronger than any fear she might have had.

Beverly’s talking fast now, squeezing Eddie’s bicep.

“We have to celebrate!” She looks at him and smile. “Let’s get drunk.”

 _It’s a Thursday,_ he thinks.

“It’s a Thursday,” he says.

“We could go partying!” She insists.

 _I am forty,_ he thinks.

“I am forty,” he says.

Beverly huffs. “You’re no fun, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Is he? Has he ever been? Eddie Kaspbrak is really no fun, Eddie thinks. That’s just who he is. He was no fun at eleven, with the inhaler and the allergies and his overbearing mother, and he was no fun at thirty-six either, with the inhaler and the allergies and his overbearing ex-wife. He was never really fun as a teenager either, even in Derry. That role was always covered by Richie or Beverly, running around and staining their clothes and stealing alcohol he did not really drink and cigarettes he never smoked from the store. He’d like to have Richie with him right now, with his loud laugh and his ability to diffuse any tense situation.

Then their order arrives. They eat while sitting on the couch and Eddie remains sandwiched between Ben and Beverly as he lets the familiar warmth of their bodies settle over himself. Once they’re done, Beverly offers to throw the containers in the trash herself. She disappears for a minute too long and when Eddie’s starting to wonder what the hell she is doing, she reappears with something in her right hand and a devious smile on her face.

“Consider this my congratulations on your divorce gift,” she says. She opens her hand and uncovers a joint.

Given his mistaken asthma diagnosis, Eddie’s always been scared of the idea of inhaling everything over than bronchodilator, and the only time he touched a cigarette was when Richie promised him his Iron Man comic had he taken a drag.

They move to the stand next to the windows so as not to have the whole house smell of weed. Beverly and Ben take the first puffs and then she passes it to Eddie. “Rest it on your lips,” she says, “and take small hits.”

He ends up coughing twice, but finally gets the hang of it. He leans against the cold glass of the windows and stare at the street below. _This is New Eddie, he thinks._

“What?” Beverly asks. Eddie looks at her confused until he realises he must have thought out loud.

He smiles. His head feels really heavy. “New Eddie.”

Beverly giggles. “What’s New Eddie?”

“New Eddie’s crazy,” he explains. He hums a little while thinking about elaborating his theory further. “He’s fun Eddie.”

Ben smiles and rests his head on top of Beverly’s. Eddie wonders if he can smell her citrus shampoo. “That sounds nice, Eddie,” he says.

Beverly takes his wrist in her hand and squeezes it, but it doesn’t hurt. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

The next day Eddie wakes up at seven, showers and has Greek yogurt and granola for breakfast. He doesn’t really think about everything that happened yesterday for the whole day. He’s got a meeting with a new client at ten and has to work through lunch because Carl from Marketing fucked up his part of the report which is now incomprehensible, so he steals a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and eats it at his desk in front of an open Excel sheet. He manages to exit the office at a quarter past five, which is five minutes earlier than what he calculated. At half past five, fifteen minutes into his commute from his office to his apartment, he receives a phone call from Richie.

“Hi,” he greets him.

Richie doesn’t even say hello. “Yo Eds, why did I have to find out from Bill that the divorce’s finished?”

Eddie is a little taken aback. The reason he has not told Richie himself is the same reason he called Bill instead of Beverly yesterday: he and Richie do not really talk about Eddie’s divorce. Richie doesn’t really ask, and Eddie’s kind of glad about that. The only times it happened Richie had sounded forced and Eddie had been thoughtfully cautious without really knowing why. He’d felt like Richie didn’t actually want to know and that they’d just been losing precious time by talking about it. Furthermore, Richie was surprisingly—but not uncharacteristically—mean about Myra. He’s never actually met her and, unless he’s browsed Eddie’s Facebook page, never even seen her, but any time Eddie mentions her in a slightly whiny, complaining tone Richie gets suddenly tense and spits out some foul and slightly misogynistic comment, which then gets Eddie rightfully angry. Of course his current relationship with his ex wife is not amicable, and he can now clearly see how staying with her during their marriage nourished all the worries and unfounded fears he’d inherited from his mother, but he cannot really fight the urge to defend her, his ex-wife, and feel uncomfortable hearing spiteful insults thrown at her direction. That has happened twice and those calls have always ended with Eddie hanging up on Richie and Richie going M.I.A. for a few days and then calling Eddie unexpectedly and acting like nothing ever happened. Therefore it’s not surprising that when Richie calls him and the first thing he mentions is his divorce, Eddie really doesn’t feel like talking about it any further. He tries to change the subject by asking Richie when he saw Bill, but Richie insists further.

“So you’re single now, uh?” Richie asks.

Eddie scoffs. “I was single before too, Richie.”

“Well, okay, buuuut,” Richie seems to think about what saying next for a moment—which is so uncharacteristically Richie that Eddie would say something, wasn’t he praying for this conversation to end soon, “you’re, like, officially back on the market now, uh?”

Eddie can’t see him, but he’s sure Richie’s wiggling his eyebrow while saying that.

“Why’s everyone suddenly so interested in single me?”

“Wait, who’s interested in single you?” Richie asks, and he sounds genuinely curious.

“Bill,” Eddie replies. “And Bev. And Ben. You guys all act like I’m someone new, but nothing’s really changed. I just don’t have a house to my name anymore.”

“Bill said you also lost your car,” Richie interjects.

“Thanks for reminding me, asshole,” Eddie replies, which elicits a laugh from Richie.

He can see the door of the apartments building now. He finally succeeds in his mission of talking about literally anything else but his divorce by letting Richie talk shit about people who drive SUVs. He takes the elevator again today, because it’s difficult to walk up the stairs when Richie’s making him laugh and he needs full breath composure to hit Richie with quick remarks.

When he enters the apartment, he finds Beverly sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter, laptop in front of her, typing something on the keyboard. She smiles at him and stops typing. _Richie?_ , she mouths, pointing at Eddie’s phone. Eddie nods. She grins and shouts, “Hi Richie!”, which makes Richie want to talk to her. Eddie hands her the phone and then goes to his room to change. When he comes back into the kitchen, Beverly’s giving Richie her farewell. He hears Richie shouting, “Bye Eds!” from where he’s standing one metre from her and then she hangs up.

“What do you think about veggie burgers tonight?”

She hands him his phone. “Okay to me.”

“Hey, so,” Beverly begins after a moment. Eddie looks at her. She’s watching him with a look that usually precedes something vaguely threatening, like _Model for me or I’ll make you do it somehow_ , or _Block Myra’s number now or I’ll tell Mike to call you and have an harrowing talk about your inability to let bad things go_. She’s let her hair grow recently and it’s now tied into an amateurish braid. Her lips are chapped and Eddie can’t see them from where’s standing but he’s sure her hands look the same, because Beverly has the bad habit of wandering out and forgetting of adopting any kind of advised protection against low temperatures. Eddie’s not really sure how someone can have all these rough edges and still look so effortlessly beautiful. That’s something she and Richie share, with their sharp angles and their unbrushed hair and the way they go out into the world and do not fear dry skin and a red nose, and the way they constantly find their way into Eddie’s life as if there’s nothing else they might be doing.

“There’s a party tomorrow night,” Beverly continues, “And you're going to come with me.”

Eddie frowns. “Why would I?”

Beverly takes her time to reply—that's something she and Richie differs about. Richie’s a quick mouthed individual. He rarely takes his time to respond, always somehow knows the answer he wants to give to anything, even if that means diverting the topic with humour. Beverly doesn’t mind making you wait for it, though. She’ll turn thoughtful and visibly pensive and will draw out an answer from herself in a slow, reflecting tone. “Well, I need an arm candy, and Ben’s traveling for work,” she explains. “And—there’s going to be some buyers I want to meet and everyone’s thinking I’m some sort of princess who doesn’t know how do to business now that Tom’s out of the picture.”

Eddie sighs. He’s not a fan of parties, especially not those where he already knows he’ll be left alone while Beverly disappears to network with big names in the industry. He doesn’t even like office parties where he knows mostly everyone and he can stand at the border of a circle made of colleagues who talk about their boats and office politics. But, Eddie loves Beverly and there’s a million favours he actually owes her, so he asks, “What should I wear?”

Beverly leaves at ten in the morning and comes back at noon with a silk shirtshe’s fished out from her studio in Chelsea and that she claims will pair extremely well with the pinstriped trousers Eddie owns already and since Eddie claims to be someone who trusts professionals, he finds himself in an outfit entirely styled by her when the two of them enter what he thought was a warehouse—a warehouse turned space for events, Beverly explains to him—in East Harlem.

The first thing Eddie discovers about fashion parties is: everyone’s extremely beautiful. There are models, obviously, who are impossibly tall and whose blemish-free skin glows against the strobe lights and who throws their heads back and expose their white teeth when they laugh, mouth agape and loud as if the world was made to listen to them. And then there are people like Beverly, shorter and far more difficultly amused. Most of them wear black and are smoking inside and even when their teeth are a little bit coloured by nicotine or the lipstick on their lips is a little bit smudged they look like that’s exactly how they want to be. Eddie shivers in his silk shirt which may be heat-regulating but is still too thin for tonight’s temperature and gladly accepts Beverly’s offer of a drink. The second thing Eddie discovers is that it is extremely difficult to keep Beverly in sight. He’s retreated earlier from a conversation Beverly was having with a tall woman named Eloise who introduced herself as the editor of some magazine to get another round of drinks. Once he’s got two full glasses in his hands and turns around from the bar to gaze at the direction he last saw Beverly’s at, he sees that Beverly’s been now replaced by a young blond male who’s giggling with Eloise. He wanders for a moment with the cocktails occupying his hands and finally spots Beverly standing not far from where she was at before, chatting with two strangers. Eddie approaches them silently and then says, “Hi” to catch her attention. She’s startled for a moment and then her face breaks into a grin when she notices it’s him.

“Eddie,” she greets him, “These are Tara and Marc.” She nods towards the other two.

“Oh, is this your new beau?” Tara asks, to which Marc adds, “Yes, where is dear old Ben?”

Beverly giggles. Something else Eddie’s discovered tonight: Beverly can turn uncharacteristically patient and mellow when that’s what’s expected from her. She laughs at appallingly unfunny jokes, throwing her head back and covering her mouth, greets people with unfounded enthusiasm and tells shallow stories of an indefinite past with an enthusiastic verve.

“Dear old Ben is in Wisconsin working on a new project,” she explains. She lays her hand on Eddie’s arm. “Eddie is my roommate.” She turns her gaze to look at him and winks. “And my divorce companion,” she adds, which elicits laughter from the two.

“Well, you’ve found yourself a very nice roommate, Eddie,” Marc says. Eddie smiles in response, and focuses his gaze on Marc, who’s watching him behind his tall glass of Prosecco and a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses which match his dark hair.

“Tara and Marc are the founders the sustainability agency I was telling you about the other day,” she tells Eddie, who has little to no idea of what she’s talking about, but nods anyways. Beverly’s actually been telling him about wanting to make her next fashion house a Certified B Corporation, so Eddie reasons it’s entirely possible that she has mentioned the agency in the past.

He spends the rest of the conversation listening to a story Beverly’s already told twice in the evening, but he nods and laughs at the right moment anyway, not because it’s funny but because he wants to somehow make himself useful for Beverly. He’s pleased to find out that Tara and Marc—Marc especially—are actually funny and quite charming.

Still, Eddie hasn’t suddenly become a fan of parties, and once they’ve said their farewell to Tara and Marc and entertained two other couples, he excuses himself to Beverly, who squeezes his wrist understating, and finds an escape from the stuffed room. He ends up right outside the warehouse, in what seems to be the coarse ambition to a backyard. He’s not wearing a coat, still lost in the wardrobe somewhere, but it’s not like he’s planning on staying for long anyway. He looks at his phone while his hands are freezing. The latest notification is a message Mike left on the group chat in response to the picture Beverly sent of herself and Eddie leaving for the party. Earlier than Mike, all the others already replied. Richie’s sent some party emojis and to Bev a warning to look over Eddie. He wonders whether Richie’s at a party, too. Sometimes he feels a confusing dizziness when he thinks about whatever life Richie’s got in L.A. He hopes he has fun, and remains safe, and the same time he’s met with a childlike sense of exclusion. It’s clearly no one’s fault he’s not there, and his whole life is in New York and it would make no sense for him to somehow invade what he has come to think of as Richie’s city—and still, a gut feeling will hit his stomach whenever he involuntary thinks of Richie having a whole other life he doesn’t know about in California. Just as he’s thinking of going back inside, a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Needed some fresh air?”

He turns towards the source of the sound and he’s met with the sight of Marc from the sustainability agency.

Eddie can observe him a little bit better now, lit up by the moonlight and without rainbow lights dancing on his face. He’s got a faint stubble on his cheeks and he’s wearing a long grey coat that makes him look even slimmer and taller than he appeared inside.

“I guess,” Eddie smiles awkwardly. “It can get a little suffocating in there.”

“Well you must be used to it, right?” Marc asks. “Didn’t Beverly say you work in Wall Street? You must have seen a lot of these.”

Eddie doesn’t work in Wall Street, but he’s far too tired to correct Marc like he does everytime with his friends, like when Richie insists he works at Goldman Sachs. Furthermore, he hasn’t seen that many parties: during his twenties he went to several because he felt that was the only way to earn a respected position in the industry. He soon realised that that didn’t do anything in that respect; going to parties did much more if your aim was to impose yourself as someone who aligned himself with the bro-like perspective. He felt relieved when he discovered that marrying was an easy way to escape the hellish expectations people in the office had of others. That _settling down_ was a valued excuse to reject party invites.

Still, he shrugs. “Some, yeah. I’m just not a party person.”

“Yeah,” Marc replies. “Me neither.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Really?” It seems weird that someone like Marc, with his elegant charm and entertaining stories to tell, is not a party person.

“Attending these events is sort of compulsory if you want to survive in the industry,” he justifies himself. “Most professionals you work with are actually just weirdos you meet at parties.” After a moment, he adds, “Well, I’d better be going.”

“Are you leaving?”

Marc stares at him for a moment. Then he nods.

“I have done my part here.”

He takes a step towards Eddie, who has to look up a little bit to look at Marc’s eyes. They’re brown like his own.

“It was nice meeting you, Eddie,” he says, and then he leans forward and plants a quick peck on Eddie’s lips.

Eddie stands still, his heart beating faster, somehow the only thing he can hear in this moment despite the loud music coming from inside. Marc retreats, and stares at him with a quizzical look. Before he can really think about it, Eddie closes the gap between their mouths.

Eddie hasn’t kissed anyone, not even a peck on the lips, for three months now, and he cannot remember the last time his mouth connected for so long with Myra’s. Marc’s lips are soft and his mouth an inviting warm in the cold of the night and Eddie closes his eyes and tries not to think about the consequences, just the feeling of closeness he’s sharing with a stranger.

Marc’s the one to break the kiss, slowly. His mouth is stretched into a subtle grin. Eddie’s heart keeps beating fast.

“Well, this certainly was a warm farewell.”

Eddie takes a step back. “Sorry,” he hurries to say.

Marc chuckles, “No need to say sorry.”

He pats Eddie’s arm. “See you, Eddie,” he says. Then he turns around and soon disappears into the room.

A little while later, Eddie retreats into the ex-warehouse and looks for Beverly. She asks him to stay for another twenty minutes, just in time to catch up with an old colleague, and then they take an Uber together. On the backseat of the car, Beverly takes Eddie’s hand in hers. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “I hope you had a good time.”

Beverly looks beautiful, even with smudged mascara and her cheeks red, illuminated by the city lights passing quickly through. She’s not the thirteen year old Eddie knew anymore, but even then, with her scraped knees and her boyish haircut and her mud stained floral dresses, she was beautiful, and Eddie could never really understand why he never thought of her at night like he knew Ben and Bill, and maybe even the others, did. Maybe if she’d been around during his twenties, he’d never have married a woman with whom to have unfulfilling sex. But then again, if she’d been around, a lot of things would have been different.

“I did,” Eddie replies. He turns his face towards the car window and stares at the buildings they are passing by. With his right hand he touches his lips; and he feels silly, but he’s convinced he can still feel Marc’s lips, and the rough touch of his stubble against his skin, and the faint smell of cologne and he wonders how it would’ve been, had he slid his tongue inside Eddie’s mouth, if he would’ve tasted champagne. He is afraid guilt will come eat him up in a moment, but he tells himself he’s done nothing wrong. 

He takes a deep breath and squeezes Beverly’s hand. She smiles at him, as if she knows.

He tries not to obsess over the kiss in the next few days and it turns out it’s easy, because he’s suddenly reminded he and Beverly are hosting a New Year’s party at the end of the month, approval of which Beverly had obtained from him after a night of sushi and too much wine, and they still have to perfect everything. So he gets up early, and eats a healthy breakfast, and walks to his office everyday and calls all the right people to make sure they throw something decent. Ben is still away for work, but Beverly often gets visits, friends and acquaintances and, well, several delivery workers because this week they’ve been ordering take out far more often that what might be expected from two fully functioning adults. They binge watch The Crown and Richie texts him because he is, too, and he has a lot of opinions to share on Prince Philip. Eddie hasn’t felt this happy in decades as he is when lounging in the living room, furiously texting Richie on George VI, waiting for his UberEats order to arrive.

On Thursday, Beverly forgets her laptop and home and she asks Eddie to go pick it up after work and bring it to her to her studio in Chelsea. He comes out of the office at five and manages to get there an hour later.

Beverly’s studio is at the third floor of a newly renovated building not far from the Chelsea Market. Eddie’s only been there once, when Beverly first signed the lease contract one month ago, and he’s not surprised to discover that she’s managed to partly fill the space with books and clothes already. It’s just a large spacious room, surrounded by multi panel copper windows. The floor’s partly covered by colourful rugs. In a corner, there’s a desk with asewing machine attached, a piece of fabric laying abandoned there. To its right stands Beverly, chatting with a man Eddie doesn’t recognise.

“Eddie!” She exclaims when he enters. She strolls towards him and hugs him when they’re close, as if they hadn’t seen each other in days. “Thanks babe,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.

“Oh, you’re the famous Eddie,” the man interjects, with an obviously foreign accent. He’s smiling.

“Eddie, this is Matteo,” Beverly explains. She takes Eddie’s hand and pulls him towards Matteo’s general direction. “He shot my campaign two years ago.”

Matteo extends an hand and Eddie shakes it and he’s surprised to touch extremely smooth skin. He soaks in Matteo’s appearance as quickly as he can without making it obvious—although judging him, he guesses the man’s used to that. He’s pretty muscular and slim and looks put together from a distance. He looks tired though and has visible bags under his eyes; and his dark air are unbrushed. But he’s got high cheekbones, and a regal Roman nose, and piercing blue eyes, and Eddie doesn’t really hear what Beverly is saying.

“Eddie?” He hears Beverly say, and he snaps his face towards her.  
“Sorry, what were you saying?”

Beverly smirks. “I was saying I need to talk to Matteo for some more. But you could stay here and then we could go back home together?”

“Matteo thinks you’re cute,” Beverly declares twenty minutes later, once they are sat down one in front of the other in a small, upscale restaurant in Soho.

Eddie snaps his eyes from the menu he’s holding in his hands. “What?” he asks, afraid he’s not heard well.

“Yeah, before you came I showed him a photo of y—”

“You did what?”

“He was curious!” Beverly exclaims, throwing her hands up.

Eddie clears his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

Beverly looks at him for a second too long. She blinks twice, opens her mouth once and closes it, and then opens it again and says, “I thought you’d like to know.” She narrows her eyes, staring at him quizzically. “Don’t you?”

Eddie sighs silently. He leans back on his chair and stares down at the menu, reading the words _Bucatini Amatriciana_ repeatedly in his head.

“Would it be okay,” he starts, pointedly keeping his head down but stealing a glance at Beverly out at the corner of his eyes, who’s still looking at him. “…if I did care?”

Beverly sets her menu on the table. “Of course, Eddie,” she reassures him, reaching out to put her hand on his.

Eddie sighs out again, this time in relief. Reasonably, he thought of the possibility of a negative reaction from Bev’s part as unlikely, with her general attitude to things, her liberal views and, most of all, the positive way she’d reacted to Richie’s coming out two months earlier.

Richie’s coming out had consisted in a simple text sent to the Losers’ group chat which read _hey fyi im gay_ , to which Eddie had been able to properly reply, with Beverly’s help, with an uncharacteristically gentle _Thank you for trusting us Richie_. And it’s not that Eddie didn’t believe in it, but sometimes it’s so difficult, to be gentle and kind—or, better, sometimes it’s so terrifying to realize the extent of which he wants to reassure and take care of the people he loves, to know that he can treat people with kindness and care. And especially with Richie, Richie who’s so loud and blunt and apparently unable to talk earnestly about feelings, but who hugged Stan the tightest and burst into inconsolable tears when he appeared in Derry, wrists bandaged and a tired look in his eyes, after they’d killed It. When they were kids, Eddie was the one the others came to in case of scraped knees and elbows, thorns, scratches. Looking back at it know, he knows this was mostly due to the fact that Eddie kept a very contained pharmacy in his fanny pack. Back then, though, he’d been full with pride at the idea that his friends trusted him enough to let them take care of their wounds. He knows that dwelling in the past and the _what if_ ’s is not healthy, and doesn’t serve anything, but sometimes he wonders what it would have been of him had he remembered of his friends, once he’d moved to Queens with Sonia. If just the reminder that he had someone who trusted him, considered him strong enough to take care of others, and who had seen him being brave, would have been enough to repress his anger into an explosion of aggressiveness used to mask his anxiety. He once talked about it with Richie–in much less earnest words, of course, but on a particularly lengthy phone call that had lasted well into the earliest hours in the morning, Richie confessed he sometimes thought what would have been different for them all, had they remember each others’ faces. _Maybe I’d less of a fuckup_ , he jokingly had said, _We’d all be different, I guess._ And laying on his bed holding the phone to his ear, looking at the dark streets outside his window, Eddie had wondered, _Would you and I be different?_

“Do you think I should tell the others?” He asks Beverly.

“I think you should do whatever makes you feel happy, Eddie,” Beverly replies. “Like, right now I’m getting the risotto because I think carbs will make me happy. What about you?”

Eddie takes another quick look at the menu and replies absently, “The bucatini.”

“Also, I feel like you should come to the party Matteo was talking about,” she adds. “Tomorrow.”

He frowns. “I don’t think he invited me.”

Beverly’s face scrunches up in a confused expression. “ _Eddie_ ,” his name slow on her lips, “He said, there’s no invite list.” She leans towards him. “And he looked at you while saying it.”

“I’m not saying you should do anything with him, Eddie,” she hurries to say before he can respond, “But, yeah, do what makes you happy. What makes you happy?”

His friends. Waking up late on weekends. Going to the Farmer’s Market with Bev on Sunday and picking up a pastry to eat for breakfast. Calls with Richie. Watching The Crown. Kissing men who smell of cologne and have a stubble and not thinking it’s wrong afterwards. Ben cooking for him and Beverly when he’s staying over. Those narrow moments where he picks up Richie’s calls with, “Eddie Kaspbrak speaking,” even though he knows it’s Richie, and Richie mocks him so Eddie pretends to get mad. Sushi.

So yeah, maybe Eddie doesn’t like parties, and he thinks too much about the _what if_ ’s, and he can’t really pick up the signals when someone’s flirting with him but god, does he want to be happy. And he really wants to feel free.

The party Matteo invited them to is at the second floor of a ten stories building in Chelsea and, Beverly explains to him on the ride there, in a studio owned by an artists’ collective which do that sort of art Eddie doesn’t understand. On the Uber she shows Eddie one of their works, a contract with an art magazine which restricts the latter from mentioning the name of the artist for a year.

“This sounds like bullshit,” is Eddie’s comment. “How the fuck is this art?”

“Yeah,” Beverly chuckles. “I figured that’d be your reaction, Kaspbrak. Maybe don’t tell them you hate their art and that you caused the Great Recession.”

It turns out that the space is a large room with exposed bricks walls and some abstract art paintings stuck on them. “Sometimes they sleep here,” Beverly whispers to him when they enter, “There’s a whole other floor upstairs.” She points at the metal stairs in a corner leading up. There’s far less people than last week’s party, but the room is stuffed nonetheless. A man stands at the right side of the room, surrounded by people, and Beverly recognises him as one of the main artists. He’s wearing an oversize jumper and a beanie, both in earth-tones, but the people around him wear all sorts of garments, far less elegant than last week but eye-catching nonetheless. Richie would probably fit well here, with his colourful patterned shirts and the zany rings he’s been wearing more and more lately.

Beverly manages to get two glasses of champagne and she thrusts one into Eddie’s hand.

“I feel a little out of place,” Eddie confesses to her.

“Oh, honey,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Let’s be out of place together.”

It turns out that contemporary art sounds far more interesting when you’re a little bit tipsy, and Eddie’s finally starting to understand the whole concept behind the contract as a work of art— _the contract is the brush_ —when Beverly whispers in his head, “Look who’s coming toward us.”

Eddie snaps his head towards the direction Beverly’s facing, and it turns out the incriminated individual is Matteo, walking towards their general direction, wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans and looking like a fucking model.

Eddie knows he is a bit tipsy because he says, out loud, “God, he’s so fucking hot.”

Beverly giggles. She bumps her hip against his and waves in Matteo’s direction. In one moment he’s standing before them and saying, “Hi”. He leans towards bed to smack one kiss on each of her cheek. Eddie is a little taken aback when he does the same to him, and suddenly feels very hot when their skins touch.

“So?” Matteo says, looking back and forth between them. “This is cool, right?”

Beverly shoots a quick glance at Eddie. She smiles and replies, “It is a pretty cool space to work, yeah.”

Matteo grins. “They actually have some cool shit upstairs.” He leans closer to them as if to whisper them a secret. “JB’s got a framed LeWitt’s certificate, actually.”

Beverly turns to look at Eddie with widened eyes. “Eddie, JB’s got LeWitt’s certificate,” she says excitedly, as if he’s supposed to know what that means. Oh, she’s fucking with him, he knows.

“Yeah, I’m not sure he’s in the official registry though,” Matteo explains as if it should make sense to them. “But I can show if you’d like.”

“Eddie would _love_ that,” Beverly interjects before Eddie can even open his mouth. She looks at Eddie again, with a vaguely threatening look in her eyes, and Eddie nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Sick,” Matteo replies. Before Eddie can register the movement, he takes Eddie’s hand in his. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Eddie’s sure his hand is a little sweaty, but if Matteo notices, he doesn’t say anything. He lets him drag him towards the stairs, dodging the people around.

Eddie shoots a quick glance at Beverly before stepping on the stairs. She shows him her thumb up before she disappears from his sight.

The upstairs floor consists in four rooms and a balcony. Similar to downstairs, the walls are not painted in order to let the red terracotta bricks show. Matteo takes Eddie into the room to the far right, its door open already, which Eddie discovers it is an office/bedroom, with a dusty mattress at its left corner and a desk on the opposite one. The first thing Eddie notices is that the space smells like cigarette.

“I fucking hate nicotine,” he says, because he’s drunk enough champagne to be able to ignore his brain-to-mouth filter.

Matteo laughs. “Yeah, JB should slow down with the cigarettes.”

“Which one is JB anyway?”

Matteo looks at Eddie. “He’s the bald one." Then he adds, "I thought you liked art.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, deciding instead to roam around the room. He might be lacking a strong filter right now, but he doesn’t want to risk fucking this up.

“I imagine you’re not really interested about the LeWitt’s certificate then.”

“You’re right,” Eddie replies, “But show me anyway.”

Matteo chuckles.

“Here,” he says from where he’s standing next to the mattress. He points at the wall behind the mattress, to a wooden frame. Eddie gets closer and sees that inside there’s a yellowed document whose first lines read, _This is to certify that the Sol LeWitt wall drawing number 281 evidenced by this certificate is authentic_. Below, a description of the work of art.

“What is supposed to mean,” Eddie asks. “Why not just get the drawing or whatever?”

“Well, it’s the idea of art, you know” Matteo explains. “It’s a… play, on what constitutes art. Like, is the idea of a thing the thing itself?”

“No it isn’t,” Eddie replies instantly. “A car’s not a car if you don’t build it.”

“But _it is_ a car in your mind,” Matteo points out.

Eddie frowns, confused. _Richie would love this shit,_ he reflects, _he probably knows everything about LeWitt already and has got an articulated opinion on it_ , and his stomach twists. He turns towards Matteo in a whim, lays an hand on the back of his neck and, without giving it too much of a thought, he makes their mouths meet.

Kissing Matteo is different from kissing Marc, Eddie thinks. First, Eddie is being too impulsive to be shy, and this kiss is decidedly less contained that his previous one. Matteo licks into his mouth with to restraint and Eddie’s mouth welcomes him with pleasure. Secondly, Matteo’s face is entirely shaved and their smooth skins meet with no roughness. He’s pretty sure he liked the feeling of stubble against his skin slightly more, but Eddie’s no place to complain, and his libido isn’t either, with the way he can feel himself starting to get hard under his boxers.

Matteo steps closer, their bodies touching. He puts his hands on Eddie’s waist and, tentatively as to give Eddie’s time to retreat, lifts Eddie’s shirt to touch his skin. This is good, Eddie thinks. It’s not that he’s never been touched but fuck, maybe it’s the alcohol or the fact that he hasn’t been this close with someone in years, and especially never with a man, but he presses closer against Matteo and their crotches press against one another, but hard.

“Fuck, you’re hard,” Matteo says. “Can I blow you?”

Eddie’s brain unravels at that sentence, and he’s only able to nod with enthusiasm. Matteo licks his lips and guides Eddie to the best just next to then. Once he decides they are in a comfortable position, he unzips Eddie’s pants and then uncovers Eddie’s dick in one, swift motion.

Now, Eddie has not lived a particularly active and dynamic sex life, but he has received a respectable, though very low number of blowjobs. However, none of these happened to be given by a man, or when he was middle aged and touch starved for years. So, when Matteo first licks the tip of Eddie’s dick, he gasps.

Matteo looks up at Eddie and smiles, as Eddie blushes, and then proceeds licking the whole length, slow. Eddie lifts a hand to put it on Matteo’s head, without pushing, just laying it there to have something to hold onto, while the man bobs his head up and down Eddie’s shaft.

It’s not long before he senses himself coming, and he warns Matteo, who moves his mouth from his dick and then takes Eddie’s dick in his hand to guide him into his orgasm. Eddie comes with an embarrassingly long moan on his own chest, thankful that his shirt pulled up to his pecs and doesn’t get irreparably stained.

“Fuck,” he pants, and stares at the ceiling for at least a minute, riding on the remnant of his orgasm. Then he lifts his head up, suddenly remembering he’s not alone in the room, and sees Matteo palming himself through his boxers, his jeans unzipped.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, reaching out, and Matteo gets closer.

His hand hovers above the bulge in his boxers and before the orgasm haze rides off and he can start to second guess anything, he pulls them down and uncovers Matteo’s dick. He takes it into his hand and, well, it’s not that different from touching his own. Matteo exhales a chocked-up breath and Eddie takes it as an encouragement to carry on; so he starts jerking him off. It’s not long before he comes.

They both lie on the bed after, quietly staring at the ceiling above them. Then, Matteo stands up and zips his pants. “That was nice,” he says, smiling. “Beverly’s got my number, if you want it.”

He pats Eddie’s knee, shoots a quick “See ya,” and then exits the room.

It’s only one hour later that he finally is back home and everything feels a little hazy, both because of the alcohol in his system and the sudden tiredness that has overcome him.

He falls into bed with a giggling Beverly by his side, a bit drunker than him, far more awake. Her curls flow in the air when they hit the mattress. Her cheeks are peach red and they both stare at the ceiling, just like Eddie did one hour ago.

“I gave a hand job for the first time today.” Eddie whispers it, even though they’re alone in the apartment.

Beverly gasps. “Eddie! You slut!” She cries out. From the corner of his eyes he can see her turns her head to look at him. “How was it?”

“Uh, it was okay?”

She laughs. “How’s Matteo’s dick? I bet it’s really nice,” she says.

Eddie shrugs. “Nice. Clean. Uncut.”

Beverly hums. “Did you have fun tonight?” She goes back to look at the ceiling.

“Yeah. It was good.”

Beverly doesn’t say anything. They are silent for a minute. Eddie closes his eyes, his eyelids suddenly turning far heavier than before.

“I bet Richie goes to a shit ton of parties like this.”

He opens his eyes as he hears Beverly moving beside him. She’s rolled around and is now lying on her stomach, using her elbows for support.

“Richie? Nah,” she replies. “Maybe he used to. But you can do this shit—I mean going to parties, talk with everyone, drink—You can do that, well, not forever. It’s not sustainable.”

“You do that, though,” Eddie points out.

“Yeah, I’m doing that _now_ , because I’m starting a new company and I need people to be on my side and the fashion world is a fucking joke.”

She lets her face fall on the mattress and then moves closer to Eddie, until her cheek brushes his shoulder. “I did that for all of my twenties before I met Tom. You know, go to parties, fill up on the free booze and weed, hook up with strangers. And that shit’s fine for a while, you know? But it gets tiring. I think Richie had something like that.”

She lays her face on Eddie’s chest. Eddie wraps an arm around her shoulders protectively.

“I miss Ben,” she hums into his chest.

I miss Richie, he says in his mind, which is such a stupid thing to say because he and Richie haven’t seen each others in months, Eddie has no right to miss him now. Eddie feels so stupid to think about Richie so late at night, when Richie’s probably at a party in some mansion in L.A. Richie’s enjoying, Eddie’s sure, despite what Beverly said. Eddie thinks about _a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose_ and of New Eddie, and Fun Eddie, and of LeWitt’s contracts and what is a car, really? What was that Magritte’s painting? _Ceci n’est pas une pipe_? Eddie doesn’t know anything about art, and he certainly is no expert in philosophy. He only took a class in Ethics in college and exited with a decent mark. He presses delicately his fingertips on Beverly’s shirt, pushing against his skin. He’d been living in such a precarious situation just months ago and he did not even have any idea. He wonders what makes old Eddie the same as new Eddie. Is it his body? His brain? His job? How does it only take a moment to change the perspective you have of yourself? To realize you’ve been living a life you feel so separated by? Eddie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Bev?” he calls, but Beverly doesn’t reply. He cranes his neck to take a look at her and finds her with her eyes shut, her breath evening out. He focuses on the latter, trying to match his own with hers. He concentrates on the wool of her jumper against his skin, the citrus smell of her hair. And he closes his eyes.

Eddie hopes he’ll be so busy the following days so that he doesn’t really have to think about his personal life, but it turns out that even when you have a New Year’s Eve's party to plan and an office to go to every day, your brain finds the time to pester you with impeding thoughts about your comedian childhood friend, having sex with strangers and the generally confusing question of what it means to be you.

It does not help that Richie calls him almost everyday and, even when Eddie subtly tries to avoid it, they end up spending at least an hour a day on the phone.

They’re on the phone now. Eddie has just finished eating lunch, sitting on a bench in the park beside at City Hall Park, the empty salad contained beside him. New York’s fucking cold right now. Eddie wakes up everyday to look outside the window and just stare at the darkness and people gradually huddling in the streets, all nestled into their winter coats. There are some rays of sunshine peering out the clouds right now though, and Eddie’s ready to suffer the cold to catch some vitamin D.

“…And so that’s why Ariana Grande doesn’t really act anymore,” Richie finishes his story.

Eddie hums. “Cool. How do you know this stuff, anyway?”

“Uh,” Richie hesitates for a moment. “A… guy told me.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, even though Richie can’t see him. “A guy?”

“Yup,” Richie replies. “Like, a guy.”

“Like, a friend?”

“Yeah, sorta, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Richie clears his throat, “It’s a guy I went on a date with.”

“Oh.”

Richie is silent on the other end of the line. On his part Eddie is, too, suddenly unable to think straight.

It’s not Eddie expected Richie to be single forever but, well, he doesn’t really let himself think of the idea of Richie getting a boyfriend. He’s been publicly out for two months now and Eddie’s even surprised his manager hasn’t insisted on mounting a fake PR relationship. God, Eddie doesn’t even want to think if that would be worse than Richie having a real partner. And the issue is that—Eddie knows there’s no reason for him and Richie to be together. They’re the only single people in their group of friends and Eddie can’t stop thinking about Richie and they talk everyday and he sometimes wonders if Richie had a crush on him when they were kids but, well. He has no proof that Richie’s into him. And even if he was, it’d be much more convenient to find someone who works in his same industry and, most importantly, who lives close to him. Eddie does neither of these things.

Still, he feels shitty about not pretending he’s interested. So, he adds, “How was it?”

Eddie expects Richie to start babbling enthusiastically, but his answer is pretty short. “It was, well, fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine,” Richie remarks. “I mean, you know, I… I don’t really date, anyway.”

“No?”

“Yeah, I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.”  
Eddie gulps. “Oh, okay.”

The sun is suddenly not warm enough to let him sit around in the cold. “Hey, I’d better go back to work,” he says then.

Richie sounds surprised when he says, “Oh, okay! I thought you had until two.”  
Eddie picks up the empty salad contained and walks towards a dumpster. “I have lots to do today,” he explains, even though he always has lots to do, and he finds time to talk to Richie, still. They say their goodbyes and Eddie goes back to the office. He tries to concentrate but it only ends up making him angry and he even snaps at Kate, which is pretty rare, even for him.

At five p.m. sharp, he collects his stuff and exits the office, dying to get some air. Usually, he would walk back home at this point. The path lays before him, familiar and inviting even with people crashing against each other and the annoying sounds of car horns and engines running, but somehow the idea of peace, of coming home and finding a warm spot on the couch, loosening his tight tie and having the freedom to do nothing, it doesn’t appeal to him. When he feels like this he usually goes running; but it’s far too late now, and too fucking dark, and he doesn’t want to get robbed, thank you.

In the end, he finds himself entering a bar a few minutes later, shooting a quick text to Bev telling her not to wait for him at dinner.

He takes a seat on a stool at the bar. The bartender, a young woman with shiny black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, offers him a tight smile when he orders a glass of Chardonnay.

He looks around the bar after she’s put the order in front of him, sipping on his wine, the slightly cold liquid hitting his tongue. The place is almost empty. There’s a couple of twenty-something sitting in a corner, engrossed in what looks like deep conversation. A few feet from them, a group of five guys is sat at the largest table in the room, loud and burly and all dressed up in suit and tie, likely just out from office. Then his eyes fall on a man sitting opposite to him on the other side of the bar, a glass of Martini in front of him. He’s scraping his dark beard while he looks intently at his phone, and the light of the screen hits his face, bronze skin and a small nose. He must sense Eddie’s gaze because he looks up from his phone in Eddie’s direction and smiles and Eddie, embarrassed, diverts his gaze towards the wood counter below him.

Eddie doesn’t dare looking up. He hears some sounds not far from him; the scratch of wooden legs against the floor, some steps. Then, a voice. “Hey.”

Eddie looks up. On his right there’s the man, standing next to him with the Martini glass in his hand.

“Hey,” he replies, getting the glass to his mouth. 

“I saw you staring, you know,” he points out. Eddie chokes on his drink and has to cough for a few seconds. The man pats his back. His instinct reaction would be to flinch away, but this time he doesn’t protest.

He nods at the seat next to Eddie’s. “May I?”

Eddie nods. He’s able to stare at him more closely now that they’re less than one foot apart. He notices that the guy’s got a small sparkly crystal on his nose, and an high forehead that meets his black hair in a receding hairline.

“I’m Gil, by the way” Gil says.

“Eddie,” he replies simply.

Gil is silent for a moment and he stares at Eddie from head to toe without subtlety. Eddie feels a little flushed, maybe because of the wine or maybe because of his gaze.

“I figure you work around here, Eddie,” Gil notes. Eddie’s confused for a moment before he remembers he’s still in his work clothes.

“Uh, yeah,” he responds. “Office job.”

He doesn’t really want to talk about himself right now, so he proceeds to ask quickly, “What about you?”

Gil takes a sip at his drink, then replies. “I’m an artist.”

“I went to a party thrown by some artists, last week.”

Gil raises an eyebrow. “Really? Who? Maybe I know them.”

Eddie tells him the names he remembers from last week bunch and Gil nods. “Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

“Do you do that type of bullshit, too?”

He thinks for a moment that he might have made a big mistake, because for all that he knows, Gil may do the same sort of bullshit. But Gil just chuckles and doesn’t seem offended.

“No, not at all,” he replies. “I actually don’t really get it. JB and the others like to… tiptoe around art, squeeze an idea until it shrinks so much that it does not have a form anymore. And it can be fun, but I prefer to do things, you know. It doesn’t make sense to dwell of things and circle around them when you can just do.”

Gil empties his glass in one, long sip. “Speaking of doing, Eddie,” he says, “do you want to get out of here?”

Eddie is back home one hour later. He steps silently into the entrance and swiftly proceeds to take off his shoes. From where he’s standing in the dark at the edge of the entry door, he can see both Beverly and Ben, who he forgot was going to come back today, both on the white couch of the living room, left covered by a blanket. Beverly is laying her head on Ben’s chest, while he has his arm wrapped against her middle. Their faces are illuminated by the cold light coming from the tv. Eddie thinks that, if he were to take a picture of them from where he’s standing right now, he could sell it to IKEA for them to use in an advertisement claiming their designs are perfect for couples. He wonders how it must feel, for two people so lonely in their own ways, but so equally complex, to fall together without mistakes, to work it out without fall backs and endless phone calls and second-guessing.

Ben must sense some movement in the apartment, because he is the first to divert his gaze from the screen and look towards Eddie’s general direction. “Uh, Eddie?” he calls.

“Hey guys,” Eddie greets them, stepping into the living room.

Beverly shifts her head towards him, heavy eyelids flapping slowly. She smiles, softly. “Hey baby,” she says. “We missed you.”

She gets into a straighter position on the couch, as Eddie takes a seat on the armchair beside them. Beverly leans from her seat. Ben starts moving his arm from her body to let her move more easily, but she sets an hand on his forearm as a sign to keep it there.

“Did you eat?” she asks.

Eddie responds negatively just as he realises he’s pretty hungry, his stomach sitting silently and annoyingly empty. He hasn’t eaten in over six hours and he hopes there’s some leftovers in the fridge.

“Did you go drinking with friends?” Beverly insists. Eddie looks at her quizzically, wondering how he could even think of that, as he has never really talked about friends beside the Losers in all of the months they’ve lived together.

“I went to a bar and hooked up with someone,” he says, because it’s the truth.

There’s a small sign of surprise on both faces, but they disappear quickly. Beverly is the first to react, grinning widely. “I feel like a proud mom,” she says.

Ben takes a moment to catch up, but then he asks, “Who was it?”

Eddie thinks about it for a moment. “I think his name was Guy,” he replies, but maybe it was Gil? He cannot really remember and honestly, he doesn’t really care, although Guy’s (Gil’s?) apartment was pretty extravagant and full of enormous abstract paintings.

“Was it nice?” Beverly asks.

Yes it was, Eddie says, and he believes it, because in the end, he thinks, he got what he wanted: skin against skin, the warm feeling of another’s mouth, the rough touch of a beard and slightly calloused fingers, that moment when you come and you cannot think about anything but pleasure, and the dizziness that takes some minutes to go away afterwards.

Gil’s apartment was big and hipster-y, high ceilings and exposed bricks and a gigantic painting leaning against a wall and Gil’s hands were rough but nice against his skin, digits pressing into Eddie’s thighs while making out, beard scraping against his cheeks and lips while kissing, and Eddie had not even cared about his sweaty back against the leather couch. It was nice that Gil had asked him if he wanted him to call an uber; that he’d just let him in his bathroom and told him he could have a shower with no problem, although Eddie hadn’t accepted the offer; it was nice that he hadn’t given Eddie his number, because Eddie did not really care about it, he had found soon enough. What he wanted was skin, just skin, and he had gotten it and as nice as it has been to come by the hand of someone else, he had no desire to form a connection with that person. He wanted, quite simply, to get off. He thinks again about Richie saying he does not really date. Thinks he understand him a little. Eddie doesn’t really see the point of dating, of searching for someone to form a connection with. He feels he already has those, with Beverly, with his friends, with Richie, who calls him regularly and makes him laugh on the phone and infuriates him at the same time. He’d like to have that with a person he can have sex with, but he’s not sure it is worth the hassle.

He shakes these thoughts out. He just does not have time to think about this. He gets up and goes to the kitchen to get some leftovers.

The shattering east coast weather soon hits, and for the days immediately after Christmas, New York City is dyed of white. Eddie spends the week waking up in the morning twenty minutes before the usual to increase the temperature of the thermostat, walking hurriedly through the city to reach his office soon and ruining his shoes with snow, and drinking hot tea with Beverly. Ben decided to stay in its house upstate while he waits for the snow to melt, so the two roommates experiment with warm soups that turn into inedible messes half of the time.

By the thirty of December, the tall mounts of snow scooped at the border of the streets have relevantly shrunk, and Eddie steps on snow when he walks instead of having his feet drown into it.

His firm luckily has opted to remain close for a few days starting from New Year’s Eve, so when he steps out of the office, he feels so elated that he sighs out a long exhale, his breath materialising in hot vapour out of his mouth. The time he drowned himself in work to avoid spending time at home seems so far away now, even though less than six months have passed, and many things have remained the same: his office, the street outside the building, New Yorkers scuffling in the attempt to get home as soon as possible; the city in winter, the stinging cold and the constant sound of cars honking in the distance. Still, while Eddie walks back home, his steps careful on the frozen pavements, the leather shoes warm, but not warm enough for this weather, his wool coat protecting him, he knows something’s changed.

When he finally manages to reach the apartment, he’s surprised to hear chatters coming from inside while he’s trying to open the door. He was convinced he would be alone at this hour, having got out a little earlier than usual and with the knowledge that Beverly has been spending these last few days between her studio and her lawyers’ office, in an attempt to speed up the complex divorce proceedings. However, he can hear her bright laugh distinctly from where he’s standing.

Most likely it is some model or photographer she did not have time to meet at the studio, as both she and Eddie have been busy getting everything ready for the New Year’s Eve party and she’s going to have the morning busy tomorrow, as all of their friends are coming on the 31st.

So he’s reasonably surprised when he opens the door and finds Beverly laying on the couch with her head on Richie’s lap.

Both of them quiet down when he steps into the entrance and they look up at him. Beverly exclaims, “Eddie, you’re home early!”

Richie smiles, all white teeth, his skin crinkling at his temples. “Here you are, Wall Street.”

Eddie, a little dumbfounded, only manages to say, “You’re not supposed to be here already.”

Richie’s smile decreases in size and excitement, but the smirk still lingers when he replies, “Well, it’s a pleasure to see you too, Eds.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Even in my home you disrespect me with the Eds-calling.”

He takes off his coat as Beverly explains, “Richie got rid of some stuff he hadto attend and came early.”

“Oh.” Eddie takes off his shoes as he says, “You should’ve told us.”

“Oh, I told Bev, but I wanted to surprise you,” Richie explains, “Shake it up a little bit. I proposed to Bev we pop up at your office unexpected but she said you’re a busy man and all that.”

“Well, I am,” Eddie replies, but what he doesn’t say is that he would have actually liked seeing Richie at his office, a little bit. Would have been curious seeing his big gangly self brightening up the grey space.

He walks towards the armchair next to the couch. He has not seen Richie since October, when he came to visit just a few days after Eddie had moved into the apartment. He hasn’t really changed. He’d just cut his hair two months ago but it has now returned to the length it was at Derry, curling at the bottom, growing across the back of his neck. His glasses looks the same as the ones he had when they met, although he surely has replaced them, the previous ones cracked and stained of Pennywise’s blood and sewage. He’s wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt that, Eddie can tell, is not fit for the city’s weather, but he looks handsomely at ease in the living room, sitting comfortably with an arm thrown around the couch’s cushion, his bicep flexing against the fabric of his shirt.

He wonders what he should do now; are they supposed to hug? He’d hugged Richie, back when Richie had come visit them in October and Eddie had gone pick Richie up at the airport. But it’s too late now: he has already sat down and Richie’s legs are trapped between Beverly’s head and the couch.

“We were thinking about risotto tonight,” Beverly says, “Richie wants to cook.”

Eddie perks up an eyebrow. “You can cook?”

Richie scoffs, “I possess basic surviving skills, you know.”

“Eddie and I can’t cook,” Beverly notes, “We tried making burgers from scratch last week and they disintegrated.”

“Ow man, what the fuck? Did you forget the eggs?”

“What the fuck,” Eddie sputters, “ _You_ can cook burgers from scratch? I thought you had a personal chef or something.”

Eddie knows he’s probably being too surprised, but he cannot hide it, everytime he finds that Richie is, somehow, a competent grown-up. He feels warm in his stomach and wonders how much he doesn’t know about Richie that he’d like to find out. About how he’d like to just enter his mind and cherry pick everything he’s left behind and everything he’s become and come out satisfied. Realistically, he’d like to attach himself to Richie and just follow him around and never let him go.

“Dude, how rich do you think I am? I am not Chrissy Teigen.”

“You chose the only celebrity who cooks herself.”

“You think Chrissy Teigen doesn’t have a personal chef?”

“She’s published a cooking book.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Do you think Martha Steward doesn’t have a cooking chef? Or that Kim Kardashian takes the pictures for there instagram herself?”

“What does Kim Kardashian have to do with this?”

“I don’t know. They’re, like, friends.”

“I am getting hungry,” Beverly interjects then, “How much time does the risotto take?”

“At least forty minutes,” Richie explains. “I could start now.”

“I can help,” Eddie says.  
“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Richie notes, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, he can’t. But Eddie’s a master at chopping food,” Beverly replies for him. “He’s got pretty skilled hands.”

Three things happen at once: Richie clears his throat; Eddie flushes; Beverly winks.

She claps her hands together and exclaims, “Well, I’m going to take a shower before Ben arrives.” She gets up from the couch. “Richie, Eddie can show you where everything is.”

Sharing a space with Richie is a destabilising experience for Eddie, who has not seen the man for months. Richie is big and loud and never backs up. He has the bizarre ability of making Eddie feel calm, safe and of firing him up at the same time. It might be the feeling of familiarity Eddie feels whenever Richie’s around, a bit like with the rest of Losers. But while the others possess a sort of unshakable aura of calmness, the knowledge that whatever happens, they’re here, Richie’s too touchy, too insecure to be like that. Richie feels like an immovable home because Eddie feels it somewhere near his stomach. He’s familiar in spite of all the years they didn’t see each other because there’s a part of him that has remained untouched somewhere in Eddie’s chest.

Richie moves around the kitchen with the curiosity of someone who’s new to the place and the familiarity of a person who knows what utensils are for. He hands Eddie an onion and tells him to slice it thinly and Eddie obliges.

It turns out that making risotto just takes a little bit of stirring and a lot of patience. Beverly finishes showering soon and joins them in the kitchen and Ben rings the doorbell a few minutes later.

They are at the dinner table and discussing the logistics of the party when Beverly interjects with, “Matteo’s coming tomorrow.” She winks at Eddie.

Richie is confused as he looks between her and Eddie, and asks, “Who?”

Beverly chuckles. “He’s a friend of Eddie’s” she explains between mouthfuls of risotto.

“That’s not—” Eddie begins, without no actual direction with what he is going to say. He ends up clearing his throat. Richie’s mouth is quirked up in an amused smile and he’s staring at Eddie with a raised eyebrow. Eddie blushes. “He’s just someone I, uh, I hooked up with,” he finally manages to mumble out.

“Oh!” Richie exclaims.

“It was Eddie’s slutty phase’s beginning,” Beverly adds.

Richie is silent for a moment and Eddie fears he has fucked it up. But that should not scare Richie, right? It’s not like he is an homophobe.  
“Didn’t know you had it in ya, Eds,” Richie says. He winks at Eddie and promptly turns towards Beverly. “Matteo sounds like the most fucking pretentious name on Earth. Is this guy a prissy fashion designer or something?”

“Excuse me, what are you implying?” Beverly asks, amused, and they start bickering. Eddie drifts off from the conversation. Beside him, Ben looks at him and smiles tenderly.

Beverly’s specifically bought Richie a shearling coat for his days in New York with the excuse of a Christmas gift. It is dark brown leather with ivory fur inside. Beverly ensures Richie he looks extremely handsome in it, before exiting the apartment with Ben in tow. Eddie’s always surprised by Richie’s statute, the way he moves, the way he hunches down even while walking, as if he’s trying to occupy the least amount of space possible. Still, it feels nice to walk alongside him, to be the agile one among the city’s crowds.

They walk from Tribeca to the Financial District and then from the Financial District to Chelsea, on Eddie’s request. Richie complains twice but never insists on taking a taxi or the subway and never leaves Eddie’s side, his long legs catching up without difficulty to match Eddie’s shorter but quick steps. The morning of New Year’s Eve is spent checking that everything is okay with catering. They stop at Whole Food’s to buy some beers because Beverly is afraid there will be too little to drink.

Eddie is scanning the cans lined up on the shelves when Richie asks, “So, this Matteo guy. Does he like beer?”

What?

“What?” Eddie asks, turning his head to look at Richie. “How the fuck should I know?”

Richie just shrugs. “I don’t know man, he’s your friend.”

“He’s not—I barely know the guy.” As soon as he says it, Eddie feels a little embarrassed. “He’s Beverly’s friend, actually. I just—I just met him and then I saw him at a party and we hooked up,” he says all in one breath.

He turns to the shelves again. “I guess you know how it works. One night stands, I mean.”

Richie’s silent for a few seconds. “Yeah, I guess” he replies.

Eddie feels his stomach constricting. He pretends to be immersed in deciding which beer to buy while his head fills with the image of Richie picking someone at a bar, taking him home and—he cannot even think about it. He steals a glance at Richie, who seems engrossed by something on his phone, and suddenly blushes as if he’s being caught.

They get home at midday expecting to find all of their friends there, but the apartment is quiet and empty. He checks his phone and there’s a text from Beverly there, telling him they are stuck in traffic and will take longer than expected to get home.

Richie collapses on the couch as soon as Eddie tells him and Eddie follows him shortly after.

“Look at this cat,” Richie says, handing Eddie his phone, “He reminds me of you.”

“Asshole,” Eddie mutters, shoving him. Richie laughs. They are close.

“You know, it’s cool,” Richie says, “that’s you’re, you know,” He clears his throat, “and stuff. Yeah.”

Eddie frowns. “What?”

Richie chuckles nervously.

“No, I mean,” he reiterates. “The whole thing with Bev’s friend. It’s cool. For you. I mean, for me too. I guess.”

“What? Richie, is there something wrong?”

“No!” Richie exclaims. “Sorry, I’m fucking this up.”

“I’m just not getting you. If there’s a problem with me liking men just tell me.”

“Of course it’s not a problem, man,” Richie replies. “You just could have told me, it’s all.”

“I did tell you.”

“Yeah, I mean, come to me.”

“Why? Just because you’re gay?”

Richie shakes his head. “No, just—I don’t know, if you needed to… you know, to experiment. I am here.”

They’re both silent for a few seconds. Richie promptly diverts his gaze so as too look at anything but Eddie. Eddie still stares at him, blinking slowly, his brain slowly melting into a puddle.

Richie is clearly nervous and is making a point of staring at the glossy blue vase set on the coffee table. His jawline is contracting, a sign that he’s grinding his teeth; his forehead is a little bit sweaty and Eddie notices now how his hair has been disrelished by the wind outside.

“Richie,” he mutters. “Look at me.” Richie turns towards him.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He asks.

“I don’t know, Eds,” Richie replies, “What do you think I’m saying?”

In response, Eddie kisses him.

Richie’s lips are chapped but warm, and they’re tightly closed when Eddie crashes his against Richie’s. There’s a moment when Eddie thinks he’s fucked up; that that’s not what Richie meant. Then he feels Richie’s mouth slightly opening and Eddie slips his tongue inside.

Holy shit, they’re making out.

Eddie decides to be bold and puts his hand on Richie’s cheek. Perhaps encouraged by this, Richie slowly moves his right hand until it is placed on Eddie’s waist. Eddie can feel Richie’s fingertip pressing against his skin through the layers of wool and cotton he is wearing. He’s suddenly feeling very warm in the heated apartment.

Before he can actually reflect on his actions, Eddie sits of Richie’s lap.

“Holy shit,” Richie says between kisses.  
“Is this okay?” Eddie asks.

Richie nods. “Yes, holy shit, yeah.”

Eddie chuckles and goes back to kissing Richie. He takes off his pullover and the shirt underneath in a swift motion and then takes Richie’s shirt’s hem in his hand and tells him, “Take this off.”

“At your orders,” Richie says, taking the shirt off in a decidedly less gracious manner.

It is not the first time that Eddie’s been skin to skin with another man; he did the same with Gil few days ago. Still, he gulps as soon as he sees Richie’s bare chest underneath him. He takes a moment to take in the dark hair decorating his skin, his pink nipples, his collarbones.

“You okay there?” Richie asks.

Eddie nods and goes back to kissing. He can clearly feel himself getting hard, and he feels Richie, too, his bulge prominent although covered by jeans. He grinds down against him and Richie gasps against his lips.

Quickly, he unzips his trousers. He takes a quick look at Richie and then does the same to him.

“Wait,” Richie stops him before they can go back kissing. He lifts his hips a little and Eddie in tow, and he manages to lowers his jeans to his ankles. Eddie promptly imitates him, until their boxers are the only things separating them.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” Richie says once Eddie’s got back onto his lap. Eddie grinds down again on his dick, now in a consistent manner. Richie exhales little gasps everytime, but Eddie soon grows annoyed by the cotton layer between them: he touches Richie’s bulge and then waits a moment as to ask Richie for permission. When the only thing he gets in return is Richie shoving his hips up to thrust in Eddie’s hand, Eddie decides to lower Richie’s pants and finally take Richie’s dick in his hand.

Richie is big and veiny and really, really hard. Eddie has not seen that many dicks but Richie’s surely the biggest he’s had in his hands until now. He licks his lips and, for the first time since he’s started having sex with men he thinks, I’d really like to suck it.

Still, he knows this is not the right moment; they don’t have a lot of time and his own cock is achingly hard, too. So he starts to jerk Richie off and cannot help but push his other hand inside his own pants, too. Before he can actually build a rhythm, Richie stops him by encircling his wrist with his hand. “Wait,” he whispers, “Let me.”

He lowers Eddie’s boxers so that they are both exposed; then he puts his other hand on Eddie’s ass and push Eddie’s closer, and then, then, then he takes both their penis in his one hand and starts jerking them off. Before he can register it, Eddie moans. He buries his face into Richie’s shoulder and bites his skin there, eliciting “Fuck,” from Richie. Eddies does it again just for the sake of hearing it another time. 

It does not take long for them to come. Richie comes first and Eddie follows promptly after, producing a mess between the two of them.

Eddie’s face is still lowered on Richie’s shoulders while he slowly regains his thinking ability.

“Fuck,” Richie says for the last time. “You alive there Eds?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. He finally looks up and finds Richie staring at him.

“If we don’t get up soon I think we’re going to get stuck forever,” Richie says.

If there wasn’t a mixture of both of their semens between them, Eddie would not mind that.

They finally get up from the couch. Eddie avoids looking at where Richie was sitting because he’s pretty sure it is going to be a disgusting mess. He gathers his clothes and flees to the nearest bathroom.

It is only once he has washed himself and his face and is looking himself in the mirror that he realises what he’s just done.

He’s hooked up with one of his best friends; he’s hooked up with Richie Tozier. On Beverly’s friend’s white couch.

Eddie wonders if this is the norm for Richie, hooking up with friends. Or maybe he just needed someone he trusted, since he is not into the idea of dating anyone.

He tries to put his thoughts his order as he scuffle to his bedroom to get some clean clothes. Richie offered himself as a fuckbuddy, didn’t he? Richie gave him a handjob. Sometimes friends get each other off and it doesn’t mean anything. Hell, this doesn’t mean anything, because this is Richie and they’re friends, although Eddie’s pretty sure you don’t feel that good after you’ve fucked with a simple friend.

His flow of thoughts is interrupted when he hears the entrance door opening and an amicable and familiar sound of chatter quickly filling the apartment. He goes back to the living room to find that Richie has all his clothes on, and is chatting with the Losers as if nothing had happened. He spares Eddie a quick glance before going back to talking with Mike and then everyone notices Eddie and he’s quickly engulfed in a series of tender hugs and he is obliged to leave his conclusions at that.

Having eight people gathered into an apartment and having to add the finishing touches to a New Year’s party in a few hours turns out to be the perfect setting to ignore the thoughts crawling into your mind and the best friend you’ve recently come together with. Beverly delegates Eddie and Richie to two entirely different tasks and before Eddie can realize, the apartment starts to fill with people.

Over than the Losers, and Patty, Eddie knows less than a fourth of the people in the apartment. There’s an ex-model friend of Beverly’s that once came to dinner here; some kind of businesswoman who’s handling the technical side of her new brand; and, other people he saw in passing at Beverly’s studio.

Richie’s proving to be particularly popular in the fashion crowd, going from gathering to gathering to joke around. Eddie’s been growing convinced that Richie is trying to dodge him, diverting his gaze everytime theirs meet, saying farewell to people promptly after Eddie’s gotten closer. Eddie’s response, in turn, has been to swallow down a Mai Tai and do a shot of tequila with Bill. And, in spite of the countless glasses of wine he has drunk with Beverly on the white couch he and Richie had sex on less than nine hours ago, Eddie’s still a lightweight. After the shot of tequila he starts feeling lighter and decides to take a break from drinking. The other consequence is that he feels a little bit bolder, he realises. So he starts shamelessly following Richie around with his gaze.

Until Richie’s standing two feet from Eddie, laughing at something someone’s said, and Eddie feels all warm, looking at Richie throwing his head back in laughter, and thinking someone’s been making Richie laugh instead of him, and he just takes two steps in his direction and grabs him by the elbow.  
Richie seems surprised by the touch. He immediately stops laughing and just turns towards Eddie with a quizzical look on his face.

“You okay, Eds?” He asks.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Eddie asks in turn. Richie raises his eyebrow in surprise.

“Listen—”

Richie cannot finish his sentence because a somehow familiar voice saying, “Eddie?” interrupts him.

Eddie turns towards the source of the sound to find Matteo, in all of his 6’3’’ glory, smiling at him.

“Oh, hey,” Eddie replies. “Rich, this is—” he turns towards Richie, but Richie is quicker.

“I should go.” He says, disentangling his elbow from Eddie’s grasp and quickly melting into the crowd of people.

“A friend of yours?” Matteo asks, nodding at Richie’s general direction.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies.

He looks around but cannot find Richie anywhere. He realises with a moment of anxiety that he never texted Matteo, let alone asked Beverly for his number. Still, Matteo does not really seem to be annoyed by the fact and does not even mention it. They talk for a bit about more or less nothing.

“Well, I’ll let you go back to your friend,” Matteo adds at the end. He winks.

“Oh, Richie’s just—”

Matteo raises his hand in defence. “Nah man, don’t worry. You know where to find me anyway.”

And then he’s gone.

Now, Eddie’s pretty sure: he fucked up. He should have never hooked up with Richie. It’s been eight hours and he still hasn’t been able to convince his brain it was a good idea, although everything in his body seems to think so. He does the next logical thing in his mind, which is to go to the kitchen and make himself a drink. He finds Ben here, among other people, mixing a colourful drink in a tall glass.

“Eddie!” Ben exclaims as soon as he sees him. “Want some?” He asks, nodding at the direction of the glass.

“What is it?”

“Oh, just some pomegranate juice with some lime and lemonade,” he explains.

Eddie scrunches his nose. “I need something stronger.”  
“You okay?” Ben asks.

Eddie’s scanning the table for decent alcohol as he replies, “I think Richie’s mad at me or something.”

“What? Richie?”

“Yeah,” he replies, taking a bottle of rum in his hand. He lets his hand linger on the cold feeling of the glass bottle. “We—I did something and then I—Ben, I hooked up with Richie and now he won’t talk to me.” He says it all in one breath, without looking at Ben.

Ben’s silent for a moment. “Do you regret it?”

Eddie sighs. “No, I—Ben, I fucked up. Richie does not want a relationship and I thought it was okay to just sort of hook up with him and then be done but it was so good and now I—What the fuck do I do? He’s mad at me.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Eddie shrugs. “I can tell.”  
Ben clears his throat. Eddie turns to look at him.

“Eddie, did Beverly ever tell you why she moved here?”

“In Kay’s apartment, you mean?” Eddie asks.

Ben nods.

“She said you guys were taking things slow,” he replies, “and that it is easier to be here. For her job.”

“Right,” Ben replies. He takes a sip at his drink. Eddie’s still gripping the rum bottle. “Everything was going well, we thought. But I was so afraid of her leaving me. Like, I would get anxious when she’d stay out of the house for more than expected, straight up thinking she’d left me. And it seemed all to be okay from her and then one day she got back and she was just—I mean, she was a bit drunk. And I was totally okay with that, but she just started to say all sort of stuff about herself being too much.”

“Wait, did you break up?”

Ben shakes his head. “I convinced her to go to bed and I slept in the guest room. The morning after I was already sure we’d break up right there. And then she woke up, too, I made some coffee and we just… talked.”

“Talked?”

“Yeah. Just talked it out and decided to get back to the beginning and take things slow.”  
“Shit, Ben. I had no idea.”

Ben smiles. “Yeah. We decided to just tell you guys an excuse because it was easier. And we were okay, after talking it out.”  
“Are you saying I should I take things slow with Richie?”

“Eddie, I’m saying the best thing you can do right now is to talk it out. Just have a chat with Richie.”

Eddie gulps. “Right.”

He gives up on his drink and decides to look for Richie around the apartment.

Richie, however, seems to have disappeared from the living room and he is not in the kitchen, either. Eddie wanders around the hallways until he notices that the door to Beverly’s bedroom is slightly open.

Eddie opens the door more and takes a peek inside, only to see Beverly, Richie, and what seems the backs of Stan and Patty on the balcony. Beverly and Richie are sharing a cigarette.

He opens the door more and takes a step inside. Beverly, who’s the one with the clearest shot of the bedroom’s entrance, is the first to notice him. She smiles. “Eddie!” she cries out.

They all turn to look at him. Richie frowns and takes the last drag at his cigarette before throwing it in the ashtray.

“Hey guys,” Eddie says.

He looks at Richie. “Can we talk?”

Richie gulps. Beverly looks at Eddie; Stanley and Patty look at Richie.

“About what?” Richie asks.

“Just… about, stuff.”

“I’ll go look for Ben inside,” Beverly says.

“Yeah, we’ll be inside too,” Patty adds.

Soon he and Richie are the only ones on the balcony. It is actually freezing outside and neither of them is wearing a coat.

Eddie takes a deep breath before speaking. “Listen, I’m sorry. I do not know what’s up with you but if I did something wrong, I’m sorry.”

“Eds,” Richie says, “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just thought I could do it.”

“Do what?”

Richie opens his arms. “Just—that! Make you come and touch you like that then be friends and just see you talk with that Matteo guy.”  
Eddie frowns. “Man, I don’t get why you are so obsessed with Matteo.”

Richie emits a sound between a sigh and a whine. “Eddie, in case you haven’t noticed yet, I love you.”

Eddie gulps.

“You mean love…?”

“Love like, I just don’t want to fuck you, I want to be with you.”

Oh.

Eddie frowns even harder than before. Than his face just moves on his own, his eyes widening, his mouth parting into a little ‘o’. Richie is massaging his own forehead and walking back and forth on the balcony.

“You said you do not date.”

Richie stops walking and looks at Eddie like he’s just grown two heads. “Yeah, because I’m in love with you. It would not make sense.”  
They are silent, just staring at each other. Eddie’s starting to really feel the cool wind blowing against his skin, but there’s something warm in his stomach.

“Let’s go inside, I’m freezing out there,” he says. Before he can see whether Richie agrees, he steps back inside and goes to sit on Beverly’s bed.

He stares at Richie closing the door to the balcony and then just hovers over Eddie, staring at him nervously.

Eddie puts his face in his hands. “I’m so fucking stupid,” he mutters to himself.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“I thought you hated me or something,” he says louder, taking his hands off his mouth. “I thought you hadn’t liked it with me or something.”

“Eddie, I can assure you it’s totally the opposite.”  
“Can you come sit?”

Richie obliges. He sits beside Eddie, not far away but enough that their knees don’t touch.

Eddie turns towards Richie with all of his body, a leg now thrown on the duvet covers.

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I just feel like I want to have sex with you again. And kiss you again,” he takes a deep breath, “and taking you out. To dinner. And then kiss some more.”

Richie sighs and shakes his head. “Eddie, you don’t have to do this. I’m okay.”  
Eddie puts a hand on Richie’s bicep, softly. “Richie you asshole. If you don’t go out with me tomorrow I’m not going to talk to you ever again.” Which is a lie, Eddie knows, but it is the most dramatic and convincing thing he can ever think of right now. “Listen, I don’t know if this is it, but I—I think I’m falling in love with you. Is this crazy? I feel all warm inside my stomach everytime I see your name on my screen.”

“Oh,” Richie says.

“And I thought, you know, sex with women is nothing special, sex with men is good, but sex with you is so fucking awesome. It was different.”

Richie scoots a little closer. “Please keep talking about how good sex with me is.”

“Idiot,” Eddie smiles.

Richie leans closer. “Is it too early to ask for a New Year’s kiss?”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He kisses him instead.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, just some notes about things i referenced in the fic:  
> -this story is set in 2016 and kanye west did not move to wymoning until 2019, but you can either decide to ignore that or believe that kanye was already talking about wyoming in 2016 and richie already knew about it because he's in the celebrity crowd  
> -im like pretty sure a fashion house in itself cannot be certified b corp but let's ignore that. lmk if im right  
> -[this](https://cdn-images.farfetch-contents.com/15/40/02/37/15400237_28635759_1000.jpg) is the outfit i imagine eddie wearing at the warehouse party  
> and [this](https://www.matchesfashion.com/intl/products/Thom-Browne-Four-bar-jacquard-wool-blend-tie-1356354) is the tie he wants  
> -every art thing eddie and beverly and matteo talk about at the second party is an actual thing. the contract with the art magazine is a reference to an agreement the artist group SUPERFLEX made with ArtReview magazine and the LeWitt's certificate is a thing that exists, just google sol lewitt's wall drawings instructions  
> +realistically for canon eddie it would take a lot more time to have sex, let alone unprotected oral sex with these individuals but this is my story and i can do what i want


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